


so dawn goes down to day

by pied_pollo



Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [7]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Parent Martin Whitly, But this time i say so, Character Study, Child Abuse, Dramatic Flashbacks, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s01e07 Q&A, Episode: s01e14 Eye of the Needle, Episode: s01e20 Like Father..., Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Medical Malpractice, Missing Scene, Pre-Season/Series 01, Scene Breakdown, Sexual reference once, Sort Of, Spoilers, THIS IS SO DRAMATIC, The Camping Trip, Therapy, Ugh tags how i hate you so, as always, endicott is a sly shrewd zucchini man, hehehehehe, lets play how many times can i write martin smiling without sounding repetitive, like seriously ainsley, malcolm had a reputation to uphold, more like a, of course, really messed up exploitation session, that awkward moment when your well adjusted sister becomes a murderer and not you, well it’s Martin so yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27662776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: You have to be there for your children, no matter where you are—and no matterwhoyou are.
Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824919
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	so dawn goes down to day

_Contrary to popular belief, Malcolm Whitly had an ordinary childhood._

“No, he didn’t,” Dr. Higa pointed out unhelpfully, glossing over the slim clipboard that lay perched on his lap. “Remember what we said about lying, Martin?”

Martin scoffed. “Is that the 1998 report?”

“It is.” A few pages were turned, revealing more false information. “I also have the transcripts of phone conversations with your son. He claims that you—”

Martin held up a finger to silence him. “He _claims,”_ he simpered. When Dr. Higa only sat back with a small, tight sigh—the fourth one since the top of the hour—Martin clasped his hands and placed them in his lap.

“My boy,” he went on, voice suddenly very soft, “is very troubled.” As he spoke, his audience leaned in. “Some memories are not pleasant for a gifted mind like this. And I understand that I…” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, looking frustrated. “I did...play a _role..._ in some of his issues. But,” he added quickly, regaining his composure, “he’s naturally a highly sensitive man. And highly sensitive people need time to—well, what with Lieutenant Arroyo and—”

“We’ll touch on Lieutenant Arroyo in a moment,” Dr. Higa interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “Right now, however, we’re here to discuss _accountability._ Like you said, you played a role in making Malcolm who he is today.” Martin scowled, but didn’t speak. “Why don’t you tell us about life before the arrest? Did having a son hinder your…” He cleared his throat. “ _Activities_...at all?”

The corner of Martin’s mouth twitched, then spread across his face in a slow, eerie smirk; lips pursed together, tucking the story behind his cheeks. “No. If anything, he was incredibly useful to John and I.”

“John Watkins?”

The grin faded back into solemnity, but the gleam in Martin’s eyes remained. “You’ll recall from your little transcripts that Malcolm and I jousted over the events of a certain camping trip.”

Dr. Higa relaxed; progress was being made. “What happened?” he prompted.

Martin shrugged. “It was just a

_guy’s weekend.”_

_Malcolm glanced up, curiosity making his lips quirk at the ends. “What?”_

_“We’re going to have a guy’s weekend,” Martin repeated. “I got us a car, the perfect camp. And Mother doesn’t have to know,” he added, upon seeing the concern furrow Malcolm’s brow. Mischief twinkled in his eyes; a look Malcolm was familiar with, and the latter grinned as the former concluded, “It’ll be our little secret. A friend of mine will be there, too—John.”_

_“John?” Malcolm echoed. “I don’t know him.”_

_“Nope. But you will. The car’s nearly packed; why don’t you make a bag and we can hit the road tomorrow?”_

_“Okay,” Malcolm replied, obliviously happy. He sprung out of his seat and hurried upstairs, before pausing at the landing. “Is anyone else going to be there? What will we do?”_

_Martin hesitated._

“By ‘anyone’, he was subconsciously referring to Sophie Sanders,” Dr. Higa said. “You went on the camping trip to kill the Girl in the Box—the woman Malcolm found in the basement.”

Martin scowled, waving his hand dismissively. “The _Girl in the Box,”_ he crooned, “is a name I would be happy not to hear for a very long time. I thought the police didn’t like attaching nicknames to people. It’s dehumanizing, don’t you think?”

Dr. Higa ignored him. “You were also there to kill your son for finding her,” he stated. 

Martin’s mouth closed and the smile slid from his face. His hand clenched at his side.

“What did you do, on that trip? What made you change your mind?”

Martin frowned at that. “What do you mean, ‘What made you change your mind’? I couldn’t kill him; he was

_my son,” Martin hissed._

_John shook his head. “You’re soft,” he stated coldly. “You’re actually..._ soft.” _He shook his head in disbelief, combing a hand through his hair and placing the other on his hip as he took a few steps away. “You know it’s not going to last, right? The chloroform, the basement secrets, the wide-eyed lessons? You need to decide what kind of man you want him to be, Martin.”_

_Martin sighed, rough and shaky. Uncertain. “He’s ten years old.”_

_“And suddenly that matters?” A sardonic laugh bubbled from John’s throat. “What ever happened to our mission? He needs to continue your legacy, Martin—it’s the covenant! Remember?”_

_“The covenant?”_

_Martin and John whipped around to see Malcolm fiddling with the switchblade he had picked up on the way, face alight with curiosity. Martin’s voice caught in his throat._

_“Your covenant,” John explained coolly, taking a step forward to snake an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders. It made Martin’s stomach twist. “Come with me, and I’ll tell you.”_

_“Dad?” Malcolm asked, looking to Martin for permission._

_Martin couldn’t stifle his pride. He knew it was_

because you were in control,” Dr. Higa deduced, cutting off the story. “You toyed with Malcolm’s innocence and manipulated him countless times, yet the fact that he still looked up to you made you excited of what he could become.”

Martin stomped once and released an annoyed, loud growl; the sound bounced off the walls. The room quieted.

“There’s something I’m not sure about,” Dr. Higa noted, completely unfazed by the outburst. “Malcolm ended up stabbing Watkins and _you_ ended up freeing Ms. Sanders.”

“Yes.” The words were spat out through gritted teeth.

“So...what happened to your relationship after that?” Dr. Higa asked. “Did anything change, now that you were...devolving like this?”

“I wasn’t _devolving,”_ Martin snarled. Once he recollected himself, he forced a smile. “Oh, come on, Dr. Higa. You know this part. Does anyone else have a guess?” he added, sweeping his gaze around the room. “Come on? No? Well, you haven’t been paying attention. Last chance?” When no one answered, he leaned back in his seat with his sinister grin increasing tenfold. “I thought it was obvious what happened next.”

_“Malcolm? Malcolm, I want you to remember something. You’re...you’re_ my _son. And I love you—I will_ always _love you. Because we’re the same.”_

“‘Because we’re the same’,” Dr. Higa read aloud, flipping to a new page on his clipboard. 

Martin’s smile started to fade.

“Why do you cherish Malcolm, Martin? What is it that you love? Him? Or what he represents; what he reminds you of?” 

Martin stayed silent, eyes fixed on him, mouth curled maliciously. 

“I understand Malcolm was struggling to remember what happened between the camping trip and the arrest. What happened during this stretch of time that connected the two events?”

This made Martin furrow his brow. “You say this as if you’ve forgotten, Doctor.”

“Forgotten what?”

“Sophie Sanders wasn’t the only Girl in the Box.”

His audience blinked, swallowed, shifted in his seat. Dr. Higa looked between him and Martin, and started to speak, but before he could—

“Malcolm left me when he applied to Quantico,” Martin announced, as if nothing had happened. “That’s when my life really took a turn. I mean...it was just a betrayal. My own son. One moment, we were talking about Dahmner,

_Gein, Kemper,” Martin listed off, tipping his head back so that he was more comfortably resting against the side of the cell wall. He rested his hands in his lap. “I just keep coming back to the thought: what if psychopathy isn’t a disease?” He flicked his eyes over to Malcolm, who was busy jotting something down, legs tucked to his chest in the corner of the cell. “What if it’s a kind of...genius?”_

_Malcolm frowned, pausing in his note taking to think about this unconventional proposition. “Genius?” he echoed, shaking his head with a small chuckle. “Come on. Dahmer wasn’t that smart—his fridge was so packed with body parts that he didn’t have room for groceries.”_

_“Those were the groceries,” Martin deadpanned. His straight face dissolved into chuckles._

_Meanwhile, Malcolm’s mouth twisted, like he was trying hard not to laugh as well. Once the fanfare had died down, he flipped his notepad shut and sighed. “I should get going.”_

_Martin sighed as well, the ghost of a smile still painted across his face. He straightened in his seat as he commented, “Oh, it’s so much fun to talk shop. You know, I cherish these sessions.”_

_“I’m intrigued by the criminal mind,” Malcolm replied lightly._

_“Oh, please,” Martin scoffed, amusement lacing his voice, “we talk about murder the way most people talk about sports. It’s more than that.”_

_Malcolm’s smile died. Hands not so hidden, Martin observed the way his wrist jerked unsteadily, fingers trembling, before his fists clasped together in an attempt to hide their twitching._

_“I see the tremors are back,” Martin noted._

_Malcolm didn’t make eye contact. “It’s nothing.”_

_He started to shift, but Martin copied his movements, straightening as well, eager to make him stay. He_ needed _to make him stay, because there was something that was pulling him from the cell earlier than usual. “You know, I once had a patient who had a psychogenic tremor!” Malcolm exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring, eyes tightly shut, and Martin settled a little bit. “What are you not telling me?”_

_Malcolm didn’t look up from his hands when he confessed, “I applied to Quantico.”_

_Martin’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “The FBI? And you think they’ll trust you?” He pursed his lips, mimicking the inevitable tones of Malcolm’s future colleagues through the side of his mouth:_ “Your father’s a se-ri-al killerrrr.”

_“What I’m saying is,” Malcolm breathed, forcing himself to look at his father, “this is over.”_

_Over. Over?_

_“Over,” Martin echoed. Malcolm swallowed, ducked his head. “No. No—I—I need you. You’re my only connection to the world out there. I’ll be cut off!” Malcolm kept his mouth shut and slung his bag over his shoulder, breaths increasing in intensity, and Martin vibrated with him, desperation turning to anger. “Please, please, Malcolm. Don’t—this is not what I want!”_

_“Well, maybe that’s a good thing!” Malcolm shot back, getting to his feet._

_“No, it’s not!” Martin spat back, rising as well. “Stop this, now, Malcolm!”_

_Malcolm hurried out of the cell but paused in the center of the room, clearly distressed._

_Martin took it as an opportunity. “You can’t leave,” he snarled, jerking forward in his restraints._

_His hand brushed Malcolm’s shoulder._

_That settled it. Malcolm quickened his pace and closed the distance between himself and the door, pounding hard on the glass, and Martin’s screams almost drowned out his thick, shuddery breaths._

_“Don’t do this—DON’T DO THIS! MALCOLM WHITLY, I AM YOUR FATHER AND I AM_ ORDERING _YOU TO STAY!”_

_Malcolm burst through the open door and dropped his backpack as he bumped into Mr. David, but he didn’t stoop to grab it; rather, he tripped and stumbled, catching himself on the wall._

_“I NEED YOU, YOU ARE NOT. ALLOWED. TO LEAVE! MALCOLM—_ MALCOLM! _TURN AROUND AND SIT DOWN, FOR—YOU CAN’T LEAVE! YOU ARE_ NOT _DOING THIS TO ME—”_

_Mr. David slammed the door shut, but Martin could still see them through his furious haze: Malcolm with violently shaking hands clapped over his ears; Mr. David running forward to hand him his bag. Malcolm accepting it, clutching it to his chest, sliding down the wall to bury his head in his knees, completely frozen._

_“STAND UP AND_ FACE ME! _YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BE A_ PART _OF ANYTHING, THE FBI IS GOING TO THROW YOU OUT AND YOU KNOW IT—”_

_Mr. David hauling him up from under his armpits, hands on his shoulders, steering him down the rest of the hallway and shouting something no one can hear._

_“ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE THEY ABANDON YOU, EVERYONE IS GOING TO ABANDON YOU! YOU HAVE TO STAY, I’M THE_ ONLY _ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS, MALCOLM, I’M THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS WHO YOU REALLY ARE, WHO YOU WANT TO BE, WHO_ I _WANT YOU TO BE—”_

_Malcolm’s panic more audible, as he digs through his pockets and takes out a phone, while Mr. David rushes back to the cell._

_“YOU’RE GOING TO COME BACK, I KNOW, YOU’RE GOING TO COME BACK WHEN THEY LEAVE YOU, I CAN WAIT FOREVER—STAY HERE, WITH ME—”_

_Malcolm raking one of his hands through his hair, down the back of his neck, no doubt drawing blood, choking out a strangled, “Gil—”_

_“GIL ARROYO IS_ NOT _YOUR FATHER, MALCOLM—YOU KNOW—HE COULD NEVER UNDERSTAND US—”_

_“SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” Malcolm shouted, before his words dissolved into a weak mantra of, “shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up,” as he turned the corner down the hall and disappeared from sight._

_“COME ON, BOY!”_

_With a slam, institution was plunged into silence, and_

the next moment,” Martin finished softly, “he was gone.”

When he raised his head, everyone was looking at their laps, swallowing down varying emotions. Martin raised his eyebrows, confused.

“Why the long faces?” he asked, settling back into his chair.

Dr. Higa took his glasses off his face and rubbed the bridge of his nose before returning the spectacles to their position and asking, voice quieter, “What did you do while Malcolm was away at Quantico? Were you as...unhinged?”

_“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”_

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Martin declared petulantly. He brightened. “What I _do_ believe is next,” he added thoughtfully, “is the return. And that...took me off my guard. It was like a soap opera!” He bowed his head slightly, eyes glittering with mischief as he changed his voice. “ _Previously on ‘The Real Housewives of Claremont Psych’, twenty years running and counting...the prodigal son returns! How will the father react?”_

“How _did_ the father react?” Dr. Higa prompted.

_He knew something was different about that day before Mr. David entered the cell—something new, something good. No—something falling into place._

_“Malcolm,” Martin breathed. A smile spread across his face. “My boy.”_

_“Dr. Whitly,” Malcolm greeted curtly._

Dr. Whitly? _What was with the professionalism? Clearly, Malcolm was detaching himself from their relationship—then again, the last time he saw his boy, they were shouting at each other. Maybe there was a reason for the terseness._

_Martin scanned him up and down, taking in the tautness in his body and the case file in his hands. “God, I can’t believe it,” he murmured. “Ten years.”_

_Malcolm gestured to the enclosure around them. “Nice cell,” he remarked knowingly. “Who paid for it?”_

_“Oh, you’d be amazed at what our Saudi friends would pay a disgraced cardiothoracic Surgeon.” Malcolm almost smiled, but quickly sobered, turning back to the case file in his hands with a dulled expression. Martin noticed. “Oh, your eyes. You look exhausted.”_

_“Yet you look fresh as a daisy,” Malcolm sighed, dodging the question with a pinched smile. “Funny how that works.”_

_“Well, I’m a vegan now, and I haven’t seen your mother in twenty years.”_

_Malcolm stayed stoic as Martin chuckled, warm laughter bubbling out of his own joke, before he sobered and gestured to the other desk chair._

_“Please, have a seat,” he offered, “take a load off. How’s your sister?”_

_Staying where he was, Malcolm stated, “You have a copycat.”_

_Really? “Really?” Martin murmured, amused. “Well, I’m flattered!”_

_Malcolm lifted his gaze and exhaled, as if he was praying to God that he were anywhere else—and he probably was._

_“And deeply concerned,” Martin added quickly._

_“Save it,” Malcolm retorted, annoyed, “I know you’re helping him.” As he spoke, he brandished a sheet of paper, smudged with graphite, streaked with neat lines and deep shading—a bone. Martin’s bone, in fact._

_Perfectamundo, as they say. Things were going well._

_“Those are my drawings,” Martin said, feigning surprise. “How did you get those?”_

Notfrommenotfrommenotfrommenotfromme—

_“From our killer,” Malcolm replied. Martin hid his sigh of relief. “Who is he? Why are you helping him?”_

_“I’m not!” Martin insisted._

_Malcolm wasn’t convinced—rightfully so. “Of course you are. You drew these for him; they’re proof!”_

_“No, they’re from my study. Journal 19, top shelf.”_

_Exactly how he should, Malcolm crept over to the bookshelf, fingers dusting the spines of leather bound journals until he plucked one from the middle and flipped it open until he settled on a page—a torn page. He held his own drawings to the ripped edges._

_“See?” Martin exclaimed, aghast. “They were_ stolen _from me. This is an_ outrage!”

_“Three women have died,” Malcolm snapped._

_“Sure, yes, that’s an outrage, too,” Martin replied indignantly. “There can be multiple outrages. But it wasn’t me,” he added quickly, despite it indeed being him, “those journals never leave this cell, and I don’t have visitors anymore.”_

_“Anymore” as in a few weeks ago, but Malcolm didn’t need to know that—and he didn’t. Instead, he murmured, “What about your patients?”_

_Or maybe he did. Martin grit his teeth. Would he figure it out?_

_“Mostly men,” Malcolm went on, more to himself than anyone else, “wealthy, powerful, morally suspect. They fit the profile.”_

_“You sound a bit judgy,” Martin sniffed. He let his eyes flick down, at the red line separating them, then at Malcolm’s feet, still slightly pointed away. Towards the door. “How’s your mother, by the way?” Malcolm’s feet moved until they were pointed at the table, fully immersed in pulling a large file box from the shelf. “What are you doing?”_

_“The suspect,” Malcolm explained, “I think he’s one of your patients. There are cases here.”_

_Forty of them, to be exact. Martin knew that Berkhead’s file lay hidden somewhere, but he was too fixated on Malcolm’s shoes, sliding across the rug like a battle—to the door, to the table, to Martin, to the wall. A mental debate on whether or not to stay or go._

_“These are too young,” Malcolm continued to mumble, tossing a few files back into the box. He combed through the stack. “Not divorced...not obese...these men died on the table...”_

_“Nobody’s perfect,” Martin muttered to himself._

_Malcolm didn’t hear him. “No.” Another file hit the desk, then two. “No.” Turning pages. And more pages. “No.”_ Slap, slap, slap _went the folders onto the desk. “No. No.” Then, he quieted._

_Martin was too surprised to be proud. “You...winnowed that down...to just two?” He straightened. “Well, tell me! Who is it, who’s the killer? I’m on the edge of my seat!”_

_Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t know. There isn’t enough detail. I need…” He glanced up, the pieces clicking into place. “You.”_

_About time._

_“You’re their doctor,” Malcolm went on, taking a step forward. “Patients tell you things nobody else knows. What isn’t in these files?”_

_“Malcolm,” Martin said carefully—_ don’t submit just yet, keep him waiting, keep him oblivious— _“Helping the police...it goes against everything I stand for. You know that.” But Malcolm just stared; a queer look in his eye. “What?” A small smile. “What are you doing?”_

_“You’re going to tell me.”_

_“No, I’m not.”_

_“This isn’t an argument.” Now it was Malcolm’s turn to sweep his gaze over his father, eyes flicking down, then up. It almost made Martin want to tuck his sweater around himself a little tighter, if only to hide himself from that look. Amazing. “I can tell. You’re afraid.”_

_Not so amazing anymore. Martin bristled._

_“Not of the killer,” Malcolm continued, voice soft, “not of the police...you’re afraid of me.”_

_Martin frowned. “You?”_

_“It’s obvious. Your breathing, how you hold your hands, how you're looking at the door. You're afraid I'm going to leave; that this is it, and I'll never come back.” After a moment, he glanced down at the case files, as if making a decision, contemplating the material inside._

_Here comes the metaphorical football that Martin’s been denied for so long..._

_“I’ll give you this,” Malcolm decided, taking a small step forward._

_Don’t fumble at the one yard line, now—_

_“Help me, and I’ll come back.”_

_Touchdown. If he wasn’t being watched, Martin would have done a little victory dance._

Dr. Higa and the audience stared at this dance with wide eyes, slightly horrified.

Martin stopped abruptly and looked offended. “Oh, come on! What is it now?” Everyone simply blinked. “Okay, fine. I see how it is. I’ll be quiet. Is that what you want? You two obviously don’t care for my wellbeing.”

“Of course I do,” Dr. Higa assured him.

Martin narrowed his eyes. “What about him?” he asked, jerking his head to the side.

Instead of anyone answering, Dr. Higa raised his hand to quiet him. “If we might proceed?” Martin sat back with a huff. “Once Malcolm started coming back to you, I understand you...gave insight to the NYPD on some of his cases.”

“Insight?” Martin echoed, narrowing his eyes. “I did more than just that, Doctor. I was a proper consultant!”

Dr. Higa only smiled slightly. “There are a few more things about this period that I would like to discuss with you. For example, the interview.”

Martin raised his eyebrows, looking innocent. “The interview?”

“The interview. Malcolm claims that you orchestrated the lockdown—”

“Oh, _please,_ he has no reason to—”

“Mr. David vouched for him. He gave me your confession.”

Martin scoffed, feeling utterly betrayed. “Hasn’t he learned that snitches get stitches?” Everyone scooted back in their chairs a little bit, which made him even more aggravated. “Seriously? My goodness, you all have no sense of humor.”

Dr. Higa took a moment to observe him; taking note of his clenched fists and tight-lipped smile. “Why don’t we take a break?” he suggested, but Martin only shook his head.

“I think there are a few more _pressing_ matters to attend to,” he declared, with a pointed glare. “Such as why we’re reviewing my life story.”

“It’s not your life story,” Dr. Higa warned him, “it’s the relationship between you and your son. Especially considering...the _incident.”_

Martin rolled his eyes. “The _incident,”_ he mocked, wiggling his fingers like he was telling a ghost story. “You don’t need to be coy; I know what you’re referring to—I was there, after all.”

“Not exactly,” Dr. Higa reminded him, lowering his gaze to the clipboard. “During the prison riot, you managed to get a hold of a phone—”

Martin raised his index finger with a small _tch-tch_ noise, surprised when it quieted everyone. “Careful, Dr. Higa. We’re not quite at _that_ incident yet. Or is our old friend Jeb Waller forgotten?” He shook his head ruefully when his audience remained silent. “My, at least I have an ounce of respect for the dead.”

Dr. Higa ignored him. “You claimed that there was a spot of the heart that, in theory, could be pierced without any damage.”

“Not just in theory,” Martin corrected him. He brought his cuffed hands to his collar, undoing the top buttons and struggling to tug the shirt down.

Dr. Higa wrinkled his nose, looking distressed. “Martin, please we don’t—”

“Oh, don’t get so _excited,_ Doctor,” Martin purred, amusement lighting up his eyes as he worked a sleeve free. Dr. Higa only turned his back, but the other listener leaned in close, studying the open skin that was now revealed.

On Martin’s chest, just over the heart, was a dark, two-inch scar.

_“Look at that. Steady as a statue.”_

“I’m living proof,” Martin announced proudly, refastening the buttons of his jumpsuit. “And my boy certainly made it happen. He could have been a doctor, too—dare I say, almost as good as myself.”

“Well, for one thing, he wouldn’t be a serial killer,” Dr. Higa pointed out, “like yourself.”

Martin sighed, annoyed. “You don’t know that. The job is stressful. _Any_ doctor is as capable as I was to commit such…” He paused, searching for the right words before deciding on, “medical malpractices.” He snickered. “I’m sure my pals at St. Edward would _love_ to see another Dr. Whitly. That is a _killer_ resume, is it not?”

“Back to the matter at hand,” Dr. Higa warned.

Martin clicked his tongue. “Alright, alright. I guess we have to address the elephant in the room. Or, well, in this case, the, uh—” He cleared his throat, and as his did, his features contorted into an expression of cold disgust. “The dead, corrupt, wife-stealing, Gil-stabbing, zucchini-faced philanthropist...in the room.”

Dr. Higa nodded. “I understand you ordered Malcolm to kill Nicholas Endicott while he and your daughter, Ainsley, visited you at Rilker.”

“But that’s not what happened.”

“No, it wasn’t. So what _did_ happen, Martin?”

“ _He’s not a killer.”_

_“He’s a Whitly. He’ll know what to do.”_

If Martin’s smiles had been creepy before, this one sent a cold ripple of fear down everyone’s spines.

_“Stop. I don't want to hear any last words. You are The Surgeon. You are the smartest one in here. Start acting like it.”_

“Ainsley,” he said carefully, “she has reporting prowess; the way she gains information is just...well, my daughter is quite the cutthroat journalist.”

Dr. Higa only closed the files resting on his clipboard with a small sigh, taking his glasses off his face and rubbing the bridge of his nose as he did so.

Martin’s face relaxed as well. “Here’s what I said.”

_The phone slid to a stop in front of his feet like the floor was ice; like it was made for him to take, so Martin did. Unsurprisingly, there was a code to be punched in, but Martin simply swiped to make an emergency call—and this was an emergency, after all._

_Malcolm was completely silent when he answered. There was something new to this eerie quiet, however, as Martin put one hand over his ear to try and listen over the screaming and pounding of the other inmates._

_Something was definitely wrong, that was for sure, because Malcolm’s voice was robotic when he answered: “Hello?”_

_No time to dwell on it, however, as Martin assumed that Malcolm was having another crisis. Those things tended to happen at the least opportune moments didn’t they? Such as this one._

_But Martin wasn’t going to let his son’s gloom-and-doom phase rain on his little parade, so he forced as much chipper into his voice when he replied, “Malcolm, my boy! It’s Dad! How’s it going?”_

_Malcolm’s words were clipped when he admitted, “Not great.”_

_“Well, don’t worry about me,” Martin went on, sidestepping to avoid a guard who hit the ground hard, a shiv planted firmly in his chest. “Things are looking up! I took Ainsley’s advice.”_

_A moment went by before Malcolm confessed, “And she took yours.”_

_“Really?”_

_Well, this day just got even better._

_Malcolm wasn’t the only one good at following Martin’s orders, it seemed—or maybe it wasn’t him that was supposed to carry on the family name after all. Maybe it wasn’t him that was going to make everyone proud in the end._

_Maybe John Watkins brought Martin something good after all._

_“My_ girl!”

_The line went dead._

_Despite every opportunity, Martin dropped the phone, sauntered back to his cell, and sat on the cot criss-cross applesauce, head in his hands, feeling quite mellow. Parents, he decided, should never play favorites; never underestimate their children. Neglect can have a terrible outcome, after all, and Jessica always said girls could be sensitive, that girls could be ruthless—she was right._

_Plus, with a father like him, the ruthless bit was almost destined to be true. Martin was no doctor—or, well, wait. He was. And speaking professionally, that was practically how genetics worked!_

_The sirens blaring came to an abrupt stop, as the guard’s voices overtook the prisoner’s, and a uniformed man hurried to a stop outside Martin’s opened cell._

_“Why are you smiling?” he asked, surprisingly calm amidst the chaos._

_“Well,” Martin explained, “I just got some wonderful news from my daughter.”_

_The guard’s eyebrows lifted. “Congratulations, Whitly.”_

_“Yes, I’d rather think so,” Martin concurred, leaning against the wall. “But I worry, of course,” he added, furrowing his brow, “that things might go...sideways.”_

_“Whatever happens,” the guard assured him, “you have to be there for your children, no matter where you are—no matter_ who _you are. Right?”_

_“Right,” Martin agreed. He lifted his head, smiling pleasantly. “No matter what, Ainsley will always be her daddy’s little girl.”_

“You said Sophie Sanders wasn’t the only Girl in the Box.”

Martin blinked a few times, processing the words, and finally hung his head. “I just gave you an Emmy-worthy reenactment of the most chaotic moment of my life...and you _ask me about the box?”_

“Not the box,” Malcolm hissed, voice growing louder, “the camping trip.” Dr. Higa started to stand up to calm him, but Malcolm shrugged him off. “I remember a—I remember you, standing behind me, guiding my hands to—” His voice broke, and he took a moment to collect himself before saying, “Guiding my hands to stab someone. With my knife.”

_“What’s that, Dad?”_

_“Not ‘what’, Malcolm.”_

Martin wrinkled his nose. “I let your selective mutism slide this hour,” he growled, “but I do think my story deserves some recognition. I have told you _literally everything,_ Malcolm—you and Dr. Higa here.”

“No, you haven’t,” Malcolm whispered, shaking his head. “You’re _lying._ That comment, that—what did you mean? _Who_ are you talking about? _Who_ were you training me to stab in the woods? _How many have there been?”_

Martin glanced over at Dr. Higa. “I think I’d like to take five.”

Malcolm shot to his feet and closed the distance across the room, before stopping abruptly at the edge of the red line. His entire body was shaking. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I think you should leave,” Martin warned him.

_“What don’t I know?”_ Malcolm demanded, reaching forward to jab an accusatory finger into Martin’s chest without touching him.

_“There’s a girl in the trunk, isn’t there?”_

_“Yes, there is, son. But she’s not yours to worry about, okay?”_

Martin, on his end, was growing increasingly frustrated with this behavior. “You’re leaving now. This session is over.”

Dr. Higa started to stand up. “Mr. Bright—”

_“I need to know!”_ Malcolm exclaimed.

“Know _what?”_ Martin snapped, taking a step forward. Malcolm jerked back like he’d been electrocuted, and the tether snapped. _“What_ is it about these women, Malcolm? These men, these children, these uncles, these aunts, these mothers, these fathers, these daughters, these _sons?_ Hm? _What_ happened on that trip, and _why_ can’t you remember?”

_“Is she dead?”_

_“Almost. Remember what I said about the eye of the hand?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Wanna see it?”_

_“Shut up_ and _tell me!”_

The door buzzed open, and Mr. David rushed in, taking Malcolm by the shoulders and tugging him backwards, but instead of obeying, Malcolm whipped around and yelled at him.

_“STOP IT!”_

_“That’s it, hold your hands steady. Blade down. Tip first, that way, you make a clean line.”_

“Come on, now,” Martin ordered, his voice raising in sync, “spit it out! What do you want—”

“ _I need to—I NEED TO KNOW WHO SHE WAS!”_

 _“Was,_ eh?” Martin leaned in with one ear tilted towards Malcolm and a Cheshire grin spreading across his face. “Did I—did I hear you correctly, did you say ‘was’? Why?”

_“One of these days, son, this’ll be all you.”_

_“I don’t know if I want it to be. I don’t, um—is she dead now?”_

_“Check the pulse. Carotid artery, there you go. What do you think?”_

Malcolm twisted again, struggling to break free of Mr. David’s hold. _“YOU KNOW WHY!”_

_“Do I? DO I? MALCOLM, GET YOURSELF TOGETHER—”_

_“I NEED—”_

_“COME ON, USE YOUR WORDS, SON! I NEED TO HEAR WHY—”_

_“WHO DID YOU HELP ME MURDER?”_

Everyone went silent.

_“This is how it goes in the real world, Malcolm. People get hurt. People die. Are you going to run away from it? Or are you going to face it like a man and do what you have to do?”_

_“But she didn’t have to die. She wasn’t supposed to die.”_

_“Well, sometimes, that’s just how it goes, too.”_

Martin cocked his head to the side. “I think you should be very careful about what you’re about to say, Malcolm.”

Malcolm just stared, eyes swimming, mouth slightly ajar. “I don’t even know what I’m about to say.” His voice was cracked, quiet, bouncing off the concrete walls before falling flat in midair.

“Malcolm,” Dr. Higa said, taking a tentative step out of his chair, “I think you need to come with me.”

“No.” Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, once, twice, three times. “No, no, no, no. I don’t—I can’t—just let me think. Let me think.”

Martin raised his eyebrows. “I _think_ you might want to bring in a lawyer,” he said, “if what you think is true...is true.”

“But I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t—” Malcolm took a step backwards on shaky legs. “I don’t know if anything is true anymore. You—” His head snapped up. “Because of you.”

Martin groaned. “Again with the blame game? You really are your mother’s son after all.”

“But I’m not. I’m…” Malcolm clenched his fists, taking more steps backwards. “I’m like you. I’ve always been like you, I know.”

“Well, I haven’t exactly been around all the time, so I don’t really have a say.” The smallest of smiles split Martin’s face. “Why don’t you tell me? Sift through these memories of yours. Right here. Isn’t that what we came here to discuss, Dr. Higa?” Dr. Higa didn’t reply, and Martin sighed. “Everyone’s giving me the silent treatment today, Mr. David.”

Mr. David turned to Malcolm. “Do you want to stay? I can call Lieutenant Arroyo—”

“Don’t,” Malcolm replied quietly, sitting back down. “I need to figure this out now.” He wrung his hands for a moment before looking back up at Martin—if the latter paid attention, he could catch the twinge of childlike earnestness in his eyes; as if he was asking for the answer to a math problem. “No more secrets.”

“No more secrets,” Martin echoed, taking a seat himself.

“And no more hiding.” It was like Malcolm was speaking to himself now, as he dropped his gaze to his shaking fists. “I always thought I was avoiding you because you were poisonous. Maybe I was really avoiding you...to keep _myself_...from becoming poisonous.” His eyes flicked up, staring straight ahead. “From becoming like you.”

Martin’s mouth twitched. “Because we’re the same.”

“Because we’re the same.” Malcolm’s chin jutted out, jaw working, trying to expel his thoughts into the silent air. “And because I need to find out who I really am—who I _have_ been, without all of it. Without the trauma, without the station wagons and the boxes and the shadow of...of you.”

Martin’s eyes darkened. “And who might that be, exactly?” His voice was low. “I think we _all_ would like to know the moment when young Malcolm Whitly…”

He stood up, strode forward, and the tether locked taut.

“Became Malcolm Bright,” Malcolm finished, unfazed. He took in a deep, shaky breath. “The truth? I don’t know.”

Martin stayed silent, eyes cold, but Malcolm turned to face him with a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“But you don’t either. So let’s figure out what happened to me, Dr. Whitly.”

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOD. FINALLY. GEEEEEZ, THAT TOOK A WHILE.
> 
> But I hope it was worth it! This might have been my favorite installment in this series—or, the most enjoyable one. Writing Martin is pretty hard, but I had a really fun time. I’m glad I was able to get this part out—I’m trying to finish this series before the s2 premiere happens. 
> 
> It might be interesting to add that the original draft of this ended with Malcolm realizing that everything in the fic wasn’t real; that Martin was a figment of his subconscious and Malcolm was trying to get his head straight before helping Ainsley hide Endicott’s body in the final installment. I might still make that sort of happen in a different way!
> 
> There’s only 1 part left! I have a plan! Thanks for reading, as always. :)
> 
> ...okay. What’s the plan?


End file.
